


Tribute

by trollmela



Series: Lingering [4]
Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Family, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-10
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2017-11-18 09:27:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/559456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trollmela/pseuds/trollmela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Númenor sends an emissary demanding tribute. Maedhros shows him what a son of Fëanor and former High King thinks of that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set after 1800 SA, when Númenor started exploiting Middle-earth.

He looked fey, dangerous, and fair, fulfilling every meaning of his mother’s name ‘Maitimo’. Whether it was the first time in a long time or only the first time Maglor noticed in years, but there stood his brother as he had been many, many centuries ago when he had stood before them wearing the crown of the High King of the Noldor.

The emissary from Númenor cowered as Maedhros stared him down and demanded in a low, quiet, yet deadly voice:

“You dare demand _tribute_ from me?”

“A tax, sir elf lord, as all people living on Númenor’s lands pay.”

“This land does not belong to Númenor!” Maedhros shot back, rage barely held in check. It seemed to linger just a finger’s breadth behind his tongue, or as a shadow behind his back. “This fortress and its surroundings as far as the river to the east, the peak of the mountains to the west, the spring to the south and the barren lands to the north are mine and my brother’s. We took possession of them long before Númenor had even built enough armed ships to cross to Middle-earth! And if there is anyone I owe _taxes_ or _tribute_ to-“ And he spat the words as if they were completely foreign and revolting to him- “it would be High King Ereinion Gil-galad of the elves, not some human on a throne in the middle of the sea!” 

Maglor thanked Eru that Maedhros had refrained from calling the King of Númenor whatever names had likely lain on his tongue: foolish, arrogant, faithless... 

The man steeled himself before replying:

“Númenor has laid claim to these lands now.”

Maedhros laughed loudly, his voice filling the chamber. To anyone else but Maglor it would have been incomprehensible how someone was able to put such a mass of emotions into their voice: scorn, distaste, even arrogance, and humour, all the while this amusement held a scathing edge to it meant to cut into the soul of the one at whom it was directed. Their father had been a master at it and bestowed that gift on all of his sons. Their words alone could incite, encourage, or cripple a man.

“I do not care if your king claims all of Middle-earth! But he had better stay out of the affairs of the elves. Evidently Númenor has forgotten its place in this world. Take care that you do not pay for it, for the price will be higher than all those coffers in your treasury.”

There again lay a hint of doom, of foretelling in Maedhros’ voice, as when they had spoken of Eregion, and Maglor was saddened to know that Elros’ legacy would come to a dark end.

The emissary made to speak up again but Maedhros’ patience was at its end.

“Get out!” he ordered with a sneer. “Tell your king that he has no right to interfere here, and that if he does not know the history of the First Age, he should look up Maedhros and Maglor Fëanorion before he dares set foot here again or send another messenger.”

Displeasure twisted the man’s mouth; but Maedhros had instilled fear in him, and thus he left.  
Maedhros’ hard gaze never strayed from him, even after Himedhel had closed the doors behind the man. The redhead stood tall, unbowed and proud as if he had never known defeat and never would.

Feeling Maglor’s eyes on him, he turned to his brother who had not left his seat next to Maedhros’ chair.

“What?” he inquired, voice softer now and amiable.

To Maglor, he looked at that moment as if the centuries of weariness, grief, and running had never occurred – as if he had never been wracked with despair and weakness, and he was still the High King of the elves.

“You’re only missing your crown, bother,” Maglor replied, smiling. He could not help the wave of pride and exaltation rushing through him at witnessing his brother in such a moment of radiance.

Surprise and pleasure flushed Maedhros’ cheeks, and he turned away to hide it. But Maglor could see that he enjoyed this rare moment, too, the power and passion running through his veins. The redhead abruptly turned back to his brother and grasped his hands; his eyes were bright, and Maglor found himself basking in the shared warmth of glory. At that moment, Middle-earth in the Second Age did not seem so bad.


	2. To the Rightful King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ereinion Gil-galad comes for a surprise visit.

Maglor was on the battlements when he saw the group of riders. Visitors were relatively rare for them and he kept his eyes fixed on the shapes until he was able to make out the riders' colours: they were King Ereinion Gil-galad's men.

Maglor went inside the fortress to alert his brother. He found Maedhros in their library dressed in comfortable, dark blue robes.

"Riders of Ereinion's people are approaching," Maglor informed him.

Maedhros immediately abandoned his book on a nearby table and rose. Wordlessly, they went to clean up and change. Their pride, or what was left of it, would not allow them to receive visitors without their hair brushed, faces washed and wearing suitable attire. Besides their steward, very few people ever saw them in a casual setting in their homes.

Maglor alerted Himedhel to their impending visitors, knowing the elf would ensure that the riders were served some small meal when they arrived and given rooms.

Maedhros' rooms faced the front of the fortress and overlooked the courtyard. Thus the singer sought them out to catch a glimpse of the riders' identity but also because he knew that Maedhros might need help readying himself.

He found his brother already sitting at his vanity, dressed in elegant black robes and black leather trousers beneath, brushing his hair. He had taken to wearing it unbound in everyday life after the First Age, when most of the fighting had stopped, only braiding it for travel, sword practice or when receiving visitors.

Maglor waited until Maedhros set the brush down.

"Simple braids?" Maglor inquired as he reached for the red hair.

Maedhros nodded, meeting his younger brother's eyes in the mirror.

After years of practice doing this for his brother – and some years of braiding the hair of impatient, half-elven children – Maglor did not need long to finish his work.

As Maedhros rose and straightened the folds of his robes, Maglor went to the window. The riders were just entering the courtyard, and the leader lifted his head to look straight towards Maedhros' windows. It was Elrond. He alerted his brother, who immediately strode up behind him and looked down over Maglor's shoulder.

"And Ereinion," Maedhros stated.

Maglor had been so caught-up by his foster-son that he had not paid attention to the rest of the group.

Ereinion wore a travel cloak like the others, the hood of which he had only now drawn back to look curiously around the courtyard. It was the first time that the king had come here to see them, and they had never gone to Lindon proper.

"Let's meet them downstairs," Maedhros suggested.

They arrived in the hall at the same time as Himedhel had the visitors enter. Only Gil-galad and Elrond came inside, the others had already been directed to quarters. The brothers bowed their heads to the king; they were respectful and elegant about it but the tilt of their heads went no further than required by customs.

"Lords Maedhros and Maglor Feanorion," Ereinion greeted them.

"Your Majesty," Maedhros replied, "Welcome to our home. Forgive us for being unprepared for your visit. We did not realize that the king himself was coming. We received no announcement of your arrival."

"Sometimes, a king prefers travelling without fanfare," Ereinion answered what might have been called an admonishment.

Indeed, protocol dictated that Ereinion should have a royal guard with him and that Elrond, his herald, carry his banner. Moreover, messengers were usually sent long in advance to announce the king's arrival. If this had been the case, he would have received a much grander welcome.

But the king, Maedhros knew, at times enjoyed breaking protocols. He respected that; even in his short reign he had come to dislike the restrictions placed on a king. Not even as princes in Valinor had they been thus subjugated to rules and customs. Yet Maedhros would have much preferred it if Ereinion had not decided to surprise them of all people with his presence. The redhead did not enjoy being caught off-guard.

Ereinion offered his arm to grasp, and Maedhros accepted it with his left. The King repeated the same gesture with the younger brother, then stood aside to allow Elrond to greet his foster fathers.

Himedhel entered then, announcing that the meal was ready.

"I apologize that it is not up to the usual standards of a king's meal," he said stiffly.

Gil-galad waved it off. "I'm sure it's fine. I cannot imagine former high kings partaking in food bad enough for me to refuse."

Maedhros smiled thinly. "You do not know what we ate back in the First Age."

"Ah, yes, the good old days."

Thus they ate exchanging pleasantries and other mundane conversation.

"You look well," Ereinion noted with a close look at Maedhros.

"Thank you. As do you, cousin."

"I've had news from Númenor."

Maedhros immediately thought of the emissary he had thrown out not too long ago. He smirked.

Ereinion caught it. "Exactly," he said. "That emissary."

"Did they come complaining to you?"

"They did, although not as vehemently as they could have. You must have made quite the impression. I made sure they knew not to interfere again and give you a wide berth if they enjoyed living."

Maedhros laughed. Shaking his head, he said seriously: "Númenor has already reached too far."

Ereinion nodded, his mouth drawn tight in a grim line. "But they remain our allies, and thus…"

"I understand," Maedhros replied, bowing his head. His reputation, after an age of kinslaying and an episode of torture, was founded on madness and a ruthless hand with a sword anyhow; Valar take pity on those who went against him or his brother, be they man, elf, dwarf, or servant to the Dark Lord. Maedhros had had the luxury of throwing out a high emissary on his backside. Ereinion, as king, who had to consider the greater picture and the wellbeing of all the Noldor in Middle-earth, did not, no matter how much he might like to.

"There will be trouble in Númenor," Maglor spoke up, ever as perceptive in political matters as elsewhere.

"Eventually, yes," Ereinion agreed. Although he sounded blasé about it, he was well aware of the risk. "So let us enjoy the peace while it lasts."

Silently, Maedhros raised his cup and they drank to that.


End file.
